The image now burned into my mind, forever taking its place among the painful
moments of this storied life—a series of imperfect scenes in crystal clarity that occupy a
mystery. The music begins, and I close my eyes, and as usual, the great loves of my life
begin to take shape. One face melts into the next and then the next face to another.
These women who have touched my soul— who I’ve had the pleasure to know—to
share precious moments while I was preoccupied with the next line, the next poem, or
story.

They foolishly fell in love with me only to be disappointed. Is this something I did on
purpose? A force of nature uncontrollable like the scorpion and the frog story? Stabbing
each opportunity for happiness in the back as they kindly carry me across rivers of my
misery. Is it my nature to break hearts? To steal and destroy? The music continues
playing— As the faces appear and vanish, then morph—as muses, as angels, as wives,
as girlfriends— inspiring my words into uncharted realms—yet by those very words,
destroying the sanctity of true love.

Ask yourself—why would someone still want to dwell in the shadows after finding the
light of their life and then have the nerve to be upset with them when they prefer to live
in the light more than the darkness? Thoughts that repeatedly create the same scenes
that play looped in a mindless movie of misery—imperfect moments flashing on my
ceiling. Faces of the women I have known—who have loved me—cared for me—put
their trust in me only to be let down time and again. In my life, as sad as it sounds——
love is loss.

The song continues, filling the room with memories—the memories are all perfect
because they seek their own level, such as water—but in this case, the water is pain—
the images are clearly floating in my mind and before my eyes as visions on clouds.
They project upwards as perfect chances that life had offered me, and I took them for
granted. There can only be one author—and that author is a demon—for he created
loss where there was none, darkness where there was light, pain where there was
healing, and death where there was life.

Yes—and with this pain comes details enough to make devils envious. Written down in
notebooks that nobody cares about—testaments to longings never satisfied. Pursuing
words instead of wonder, loss instead of living. Creating moments that never were and
missing the moments that mattered most.
Existing in present love, I was never truly committed to it. Leaving us the same
conclusion—the same realization we had at the beginning of this book—slightly different
now, for I see the real cause. He must see it as well, for he created me for your
entertainment.

My most significant pain—the one that overshadows all the rest as if a diamond
sparkling through the eyes of damnation—is love. Every love I’ve ever had has been
tainted by my actions—by my ignorance—by my words. Love taken away—love
destroyed—love ignored— love betrayed—my past is a blur—interspersed—with pain—
in brilliant clarity

TM DiSarro
From: POKING HOLES IN THE DARKNESS